Chapter Sixteen

The old photo of David stares back at me from the glossy page as if it can see me. I re-read his 1912 quote about the murders, “People are afraid of the devil when they really should be afraid of each other.”

My heart races with another look back into the familiar eyes. Familiar, though distorted from the lens of an early camera and whatever digital process had planted them on the shiny page of this book. Even with the distortion, they’re David’s eyes. And they’re over one hundred years old.

I close the book and stare at the closet door. It’s latched and most of me wants it to stay that way, but a tiny sliver of me wishes it would bolt open. I need answers and wish the communication between me and the entities swirling inside it wasn’t just one-way. Instead of having to wait for them, I wish there was a way for me to contact them whenever I needed help.

But there isn’t. And there’s only one person who can give me straight answers. Only one person who can explain how seventeen-year-old David had his picture taken in 1912.

David himself.

Just as he had predicted—I read the book, and now I want to talk. Read the book. And then you’ll want to talk. I guarantee it.

“Dammit.”

I kick my feet back into flip-flops and head to David’s house.

He’s in the garage, fiddling with a fishing pole. A hint of smugness crosses his face as soon as he spots me. He places the rod on the workbench and turns to greet me. Palms up, he says with a grin, “I hate to say I told ya so, but—”

“Then don’t.” I stop ten feet from the opened garage door, cautious enough to keep my distance. “The book. You’re in it…in 1912.”

He nods solemnly.

“Did you and Mateo fake the book to screw with me?”

“No, of course not.”

“How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

“Trust me, I’m not. And creating a book would be expensive anyway, and Mateo and I don’t have any money. Plus, it’d take weeks to create a book like that, and we didn’t even know you weeks ago.”

True. I don’t argue back, but I don’t speak in the affirmative either because I’m not in the mood to be nice. “Please, David,” I say. I want to be strong, but I can’t. “I’m confused and I want the truth.”

David exhales slowly. He looks around, as though searching for something to make this moment easier on him. But when he doesn’t find anything, he looks at me and asks, “Are you hungry?”

It’s well past noon, and the scared knots in my stomach don’t fully cover up the empty gurgle within. I hesitate on answering but then decide food is a good idea. It’ll give me energy if I need to run. Plus, if we go to a restaurant, I’ll be around other people, and there’s safety in numbers.

“I can eat.”

We walk in silence the two blocks to the Rolling Stone Café. It’s one of the few businesses open on Sunday. Because church people like to eat.

The walls of the diner are paneled in light wood. It’s a seat-yourself-wherever kind of place, with yellow and red bottles on each table and cheap vinyl chairs. David leads me to a table for two by the front window. The place is busy, about three-quarters full. But all other parties are loud families with small kids, taking up tables for four, six, or more. The two-seater tables are empty, except ours.

Kids play on the jungle gym across the street at the park. Old Man Zach sits on his bench, looking half asleep. An idyllic small town. If only.

A woman of about fifty with bleached-blonde hair plops down two glasses of ice water and two menus in front of us. Rhonda, according to her name tag. She smiles a big Midwestern smile. “I’ll give you two a few minutes and be right back to take your order, kay?”

I say thanks. David takes a sip of water and doesn’t bother with the menu. He’s a local. He doesn’t need one.

There aren’t too many items to choose from. A few varieties of hamburgers and sandwiches. Sides of fries, salad, or soup. When Rhonda returns, I order the BLT with fries and a Coke. David orders a cheeseburger with fries and a Mountain Dew.

The drinks come first, and I waste no time sticking in my straw and inhaling half the Coke. I’m thirsty and hungry and relieved to be sitting in a diner with the sights and sounds of normal people—normal families with bratty kids, a crying baby, a mom yelling at a grade-school-aged boy, and a father telling his preteen daughter to put her phone away.

Though at any moment, the ordinary world is going to sense my presence. I’ll be exposed as a freak—the girl who talks to ghosts. And that kind of girl is not welcomed in normal establishments like small-town cafés. I glance at David. As much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s my companion in this mess.

I run a finger across the shiny veneer of the cheap table. “My dad loves this place.” David’s eyes light up, and he looks like he has something to say about this but doesn’t speak. “He used to bring me here sometimes when I was little. My grandparents aren’t much for restaurants and my mom, well…” I drift off with a little smile. “She’s not much of a small-town fan. She’d rather drive away hungry and wait for a bigger city with more dining options.”

David doesn’t respond either way to the insult of small-town living.

“It was always just my dad and me that came here,” I tell him. “He used to let me get a strawberry milkshake with my hamburger. And I’d always drink the shake first before my food came out, and then I’d be too full to eat the real food.” I laugh at the memory. “But he’d never get mad at me. He’d wink and say, ‘We won’t tell mom.’”

For the first time since his driveway, David smiles.

The food comes quickly, and Rhonda refills my Coke. David begins eating his fries and I can’t stop staring at him.

“What?” he asks.

A smile erupts across my face. “I’m watching you eat, waiting for the food to fall through you like Slimer in Ghostbusters.”

He chuckles and pops a few more fries into his mouth. “I’m not a ghost. I already told you that.”

I pick up my fork, and before he can jerk away, I stab his forearm. Not hard, just enough for the prongs to leave indentations in his skin. He’s genuine flesh and bone. The blue violet of veins on his inner wrist means there’s blood coursing through him. Like a real guy.

“What the hell was that for?” he asks, inspecting the tiny dents. “I said I’m not a ghost. Couldn’t you trust what I told you and not stab me?”

“Sorry.” But I wasn’t. Not really. “So, you’re not a ghost and you didn’t fake the book. I know, you’re immortal right? Like a vampire. Except”—the window next to us displays a mirrored version of him—“you have a reflection, and you don’t sparkle in the sun.”

After a sip of Mountain Dew, he answers with a laugh, “I’m not a vampire.” He pops more fries in his mouth. “That’d be cool though.”

The incoming sunlight makes his eyes gleam as he smiles at me. I look away.

“Okay, you’re not a vampire, not a ghost, not a bookmaker…” I twirl the straw in my Coke. “What are you then?”

“I’m a normal, seventeen-year-old guy,” he says. “Honest. In a few days, it will be eighteen years since I was born. I’ve got a birth certificate and everything. I was born at 8:03 a.m. on June fifteenth. It’s always June fifteenth. Every time.”

“What do you mean every time? Of course it’s every time. Birthdays don’t change year to year…unless you’re born on Leap Day, I guess.”

He shakes his head. “I mean every time I’m born, it’s always on June fifteenth.”

“What do you mean, every time you’re born? How many times have you been born?”

He pauses with a bundle of fries halfway to his mouth. “Seven.”